


Red Cabbages Are Good for You

by mellish



Category: Death Note
Genre: Gen, side characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-09
Updated: 2008-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-09 01:04:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellish/pseuds/mellish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sayu is ordinary.  Such a fact is not really supposed to sting.  Written in 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Cabbages Are Good for You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for week #19 - Shopping at [dn_contest](dn_contest).

You know it's stupid, but it's worth a try. You tear the article out of the magazine, carefully, and you get your purse and put your celphone in your pocket and head for the door, making sure you pass by the kitchen where Mom will, undoubtedly, be making dinner, and you say – "I'm going out to get some groceries." She replies, mind half on the news and half on the tomato she's chopping, "Have a good time and don't stay out too late."

You wouldn't dream of staying out too late in a grocery, and you don't think gazing upon rows of canned tuna and hair conditioner can really constitute a good time; but you politely answer, "Yes, I'm off." She doesn't bother turning around. The _shlock shlock_ of her knife cutting through the tomatoes echoes as you let the front door shut quietly behind you.

You've got manners, at least. That counts for something, right?

_Everything_ counts for something. This is what you repeat to yourself as you walk down the street: _everything counts for something and she's only busy._ (With what? With – with housework, of course, that's a very important thing for moms.) Anyway, you're too old to care about whether your mom minds if you leave. In fact, you should be happy she doesn't. That's what Suki at school said, her mom is forever hovering over her shoulder, wanting to know who she's dating and what she got on her math test and what she ate for lunch, and it's really _annoying_. She has to make up a billion excuses just to go to a party.

You only say you're going out to a party as a formality; you know you wouldn't be missed otherwise.

Yeah, you're lucky. Dad might say no, being the protective policeman he is, but he's not at home to consult with, in the first place; and Mom just gives her soft smile and warns you about most boys having nasty intentions, saying that you should only get close to someone 'like your brother' because really, Light's the ideal type of boy. He's good-looking, respectful, gentlemanly, and tremendously good at trigonometry. Not to mention he got a perfect score on the Toudai exam.

The very idea of a _perfect score_ on the hardest college university exam in the _whole freaking Japan_ makes your head start to pound. Next week, you'll be starting cram school, and no matter how many cute school supplies you've bought to psych yourself up for it, the thought of losing all your free time remains unappealing. There's a very, very high possibility that you _won't_ get into Tokyo University; all of the first-tier schools are a bit of a stretch, considering your average records. You'd be happy if you could get into any of the second-tier schools, actually; but of course you'll apply to the best schools, if only to try for Mom and Dad's sake.

You're not sure if you want them to notice. It would be nice to have your efforts appreciated; then again, since your best efforts still might not amount to much, it might prove more crushing if they pay attention.

The grocery is three blocks down. You push these useless thoughts to the back of your mind and concentrate on the road signs in front of you. A green light goes on, and you join the flood of students and professionals converging from either side, just another insignificant face in the crowd. When you finally arrive at the store, the price cut sale has just started. The person behind the meat counter bangs two wood clappers against each other and yells, "Half-price on the pork loin and fish fillet! Half-price on the hamburg steaks! Pork loin and fish fillet!"

You pull the crumpled magazine page out of your handbag and study it, hoping that the surveillance cameras aren't capturing your embarrassing list. _Red cabbages_, it says on top, in bold, bright red letters. _With anthocyanins, to improve brain-functions!_ This is followed, with more bright red print, by _Tomatoes with lycopene!_ and _Berries with polyphenol!_

You head for the vegetables section and wonder why you didn't bring a jacket, because all those refrigerators can get _cold_. As you scan the aisles for red cabbages you wonder if Mom's tomatoes will finally be appreciated by Dad and Light tonight. Sometimes they make it home in the early morning, and through the haze of sleep you can hear Dad's heavy feet thumping up the stairs in a tired, stately rhythm; but recently they've both been staying out all night, working so hard that each day bleeds into the next without warning, just as sudden and routine as another one of Kira's murders on the news. The idea of the name makes your head spin instinctively to the TV at the corner wall, where the cameras are rolling over the latest victim, eyes practically popping out of his head and cheeks stained with spittle.

Sometimes it's difficult to believe that your father and brother are honestly attempting to capture Kira. The risk of the case has long been closed as a dinner topic, and you know better than to bring it up. When you consider it, though, it's amazing – nearly surreal, even – how part of your family is actually involved in the battle between the world's greatest murderer and the world's greatest detective.

It's also amazing that neither Light nor Dad have been harmed (killed?), but of course that's pessimistic thinking, of course they wouldn't be. They're careful. And justice is on their side.

They're fighting the good fight. While Mom's at home chopping tomatoes.  
And you're here buying red cabbages.

Because – well, what? You think they'll actually boost your brain power, make you smarter, make you – you don't know, _worth_ this family? Make you worth being a Yagami? They don't expect anything – you _know that_. It's just, recently... you've kinda felt that it would be _nice_ to have someone think you can do better, to have a little pressure, to feel a bit more needed and wanted, in any way at all. You don't think you'll ever match your brother's insane record. But recently it's been bothering you how no one thinks you'd ever even want to, how it's futile anyway, how the Yagamis are already blessed with one brilliant child, and _really, oh, that's your daughter? Yes, she's quite cute. In junior year, you say? Anything like her brother?_

The slightly-embarrassed smiles that always follow hurt worse than if they had said an outright no. You're aware of your limitations, don't they think you _notice_? Don't they think that – maybe you're offended, maybe it _hurts_ – but that's not how good daughters act, so you don't dwell on it. Instead you push it away to the back of your mind and focus on the task at hand.

Red cabbages are out of stock. Fine.  
Tomatoes, then.

You pick one up and you test its weight, cradling it in the palm of your hand, lifting it like some bizarre rounded barbell. And suddenly you remember that test question, about whether a tomato was a vegetable or a fruit, and how you were _so stumped_. Some of your classmates' pencils were whizzing like lightning, but you had to spend five whole minutes considering, and even then you simply shaded in a guess.

But what does it matter?

When you come home from midterms your mother isn't at the door with an expectant grin. Instead, she serves you some leftover pudding and says, nearly cautious, "How was the test?" and you have to answer, with all honesty, "Not too great."

_Exactly._ Not too great. Not horrendous. But nothing special.

Maybe if you excelled a sport, or, or if you were a genius painter – but that's wishful thinking. You're ordinary. The thought makes your vision blur, for a fraction of a second. Yes. You are ordinary. _Ordinary._ (Not like Daddy and not like L and most certainly not like Light; and who cares, really?) No amount of anytho-whatsits or polysomethings will change that. No, the only thing you can do truly well is keep your manners, and keep your smile, and maybe help mom chop up the tomatoes and toss the salad, and set the table.

They might not notice. But you'll do what you can as best as you can. (Because that's _all_ you can do – nonono. That's what you can do. And it's worth something. Anything.)

Abruptly you set down the tomato you are holding (amazing that it hasn't dropped yet). You crumple the article and stuff it into your pocket. Then you switch aisles and head for the snack section.

You buy the biggest pack of potato chips you can find. And the biggest possible soda while you're at it.


End file.
